How Oprah is Preparing for Her First Mother's Day After Her Mom's Death

From Oprah Magazine

My mother in her final days had the great gift of saying goodbye. I flew to Milwaukee three times in one week to be with her at her home. I could feel the end was near. She’d become not only weak but weary and resigned.

At one point, as we sat in the overheated little room with the big-screen TV watching The Bold and the Beautiful, The Young and the Restless, and the game-show channel’s incessant run of Family Feud, I asked her: “Do you think you’re going to make it through this?”

She slowly shook her head.

Shortly afterward, her caregiver for the past 14 years, Nurse Judy, came into the crowded room that was made even more crowded by the never-used exercise bike and the brown leather recliner my mother had always maintained as a personal throne. Their eyes met, and my mother reached for her and started to cry. I felt they were tears of gratitude, though she never said a word. She rarely showed emotion.

We had a complicated relationship, my mother and I-this I know for sure. Now that she’s gone, I understand it more clearly. When I left her on my second visit of the week, I was certain it was the last time I’d see her. Still, I could think of nothing more meaningful to say than “Goodbye, I’ll see you later.” Pitiful for someone who’s made a career of connecting with people. I went to fulfill a speaking engagement in Lowell, Massachusetts. When it was over, instead of heading home to California for a full day of meetings, I canceled everything and flew back to Milwaukee.

Don’t be a hypocrite, I chided myself. If this were anyone else, you’d tell them “Leave nothing unsaid”-and yet you’ve said nothing.

I returned to close it. To finish the unfinished business with my mother. I spent another day in the hot room just sitting and watching Family Feud on a loop.

Again, I could think of nothing to talk about-though I knew I had buried plenty to say. I read the hospice manual cover to cover, the suggestions about memories to share, lessons learned, what your loved one taught you.

I was empty of thoughts and feelings. That night I went to bed and prayed for the right words to come. Words without judgment or a hint of resentment.

What is my truth?, I kept asking. The truth I need to speak to her to bring peace to us both?

With a new day came the answer. I woke, sat in silence. And then reached for my phone and accidentally (if you believe in accidents) hit the music app, with Mahalia Jackson singing “Take My Hand, Precious Lord.” I don’t recall ever having downloaded Mahalia Jackson.

I walked into the hot room with my phone playing Mahalia, and then had a better idea-to call my friend Wintley Phipps, the renowned gospel singer, and ask him to sing to my mother a cappella.

He FaceTimed from his kitchen table in Florida at 8:38 in the morning. And with power and grace he baritoned:

I could see it moved her. Wintley ended with a prayer for her and for our family.

“Have no fear, just peace.”

That gave me the opening I’d been praying for. Looking directly into her eyes, I said these words:

“I know it must have been hard for you as a 17-year-old pregnant, scared girl in Mississippi. Many people no doubt told you to get rid of that baby. To have an abortion or give me away. But you didn’t. And for that I thank you. I know you did the best you could with what you had. And for that I thank you. And look how it’s all turned out.”

My sister, Pat, who found our family in 2010, having been given up for adoption in 1963, said: “Please forgive yourself for giving me away. I have forgiven you. I came back. We are your daughters, and we are here to help ease the transition. We are your daughters. We thank you for life.”

This story originally appeared in the May 2019 issue of O.

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